Battery
by ashesmuse
Summary: A battery's duty is to spellwork. A single misfired spell can lead to injury, death or a revelation that batteries were once something more. Slight AU.
1. tuesday, night

disclaimer: recognizable stuff belongs to Rowlings, the rest, my own delusions. d'accord.

Battery

Tuesday, night.

The rain is pushing against the stones and I imagine that the stone is pushing against me, a circuit of nature so I can feel the rain against my hair. It's one of my few memories left, rain cascading down on me, harder than the measly water pressure from the showers could imitate. It's the first thing I wrote about in this journal, after I was taught to read and write. Some frowned at my teacher for this individuality I was given. The harsh arguing within earshot I can still recall, now knowing better than my puzzled child self what they meant.

One of us taught anything beyond our livelihood is shocking to me now. I am thankful, but I hope none realize how far I passed on what I learned. 'Elve and Ten can write as well as I. They have more freedom and have passed it onto others, I hope. Ten, being his sly self, taught me a different alphabet, one composed of looks, moves and watching closer than the techs do their monitors. I smile now, from the winter lesson of how Ten's bright red hair could be a signal of mischief to arrive.

None of that tonight. The room's dark, with no light bulbs to break and no candles to burn. Through the tiny window of the door, I can see the wirings and the light bulbs, unlit yet gleaming in the pitch hallway. It would be so easy for me to break out, like Ten threatens daily over his toast and eggs.

[ink splotches follow]

Every morning, there's the sizzle of the lights igniting along the hallway and I go and wait by the door. Voices begin the morning count with the call for the lock mechanism to be released. I always step through my door with held breath, checking at the edge of my eyesight for Ten and 'Elve. 'Elve always has nightmares and looks too pale even with his death ivory skin, bluish smudges under eyes the brightest part of his waned face. Ten is often muttering in his throat, observing the guards for their patterns. His hands squirm at his sides, the only indicator of his mood. One I learned quickly, from his fisted reluctance to the tapping anticipation of another failed escape attempt.

Batteries Roll Out! That bellow would startle the creche children or the half-asleep, but I'm used to the suddenness and do not startle easily anymore. 

We're all led to the Great Hall, one of the few sections of the castle that hasn't been transformed into more cells and working chambers. Four long tables, sturdy and scarred from years of people sitting at them, now hold barely a hundred of our number. Our livelihood is a deadly one and each morning, I try to keep my eyes from where the creche children sit. I can't help but count their dwindling numbers. 'Elve says I have the heart of a lion, but I should know better than to worry after the untried. Once we're able to spellwork, is it okay to care then? 

*******

He pressed his head to the cool stones, sighing in relief for the pain was leaving him. His hair was sweat damp and framed a reddened face. Laboured breathing was his focus, the stones his ground and yet, he strained to hear the tech's voice through them. There was always the chatter of the technicians after a spellworking, the shuffle of the guards uncertain to approach even a weakened battery and the battery's own trial of continuing to breathing.

Unnatural silence filling his ears. There was no hum of electricity or the sparkling crackle of magic through the fragile bones of his hands. His heart returned to its quiet whisper within his chest, his breath coming without the sensation of drowning; the harshest signs of a spellworking faded from his body. It left him worn and chilled, waiting for the guards to drag him to his feet and away from the working chamber.

The nothingness caused the boy to raise his head, slowly easing his body to sit upright and look about in confusion. He was in the Great Hall. His first thoughts were of the wards surrounding the working chambers and how he could pass through them by accident if it was thought impossible by all. The Hall was decorated, bringing him to second and third thoughts. Bright banners in a rainbow of colours caught his eye, so different from its usual dull grey and brown. The number of people seated throughout the Hall startled him. A sea of children and adults in black robes stared back, worried and frightened faces everywhere he looked.

He took to his feet with unsteady movements, confused as some children pulled sticks from their robes in mimicry of the adults, who pointed their sticks at him with grave faces. What could they do with sticks? He wondered faintly, trying to gather up what magic reserves he had left. He didn't trust himself with open access to the lines, not so soon after a working.

"But that's me Hermione." The voice traveled in the Great Hall. He turned to see a boy his age, half standing from a table, stick held tight in his hand. The boy raised his head and they both watched with wide eyes. It was a mirror image of his wary face and posture in black robes and without collar. A quick glance about the Hall showed him that all these children were free. Confused, he returned his focus to the mirror image, the free him. He reached up to trace the iron band surrounding his neck, confining him still. 

That's when the final side effect of spellworking faded away and he was once again able to sense magic. He was amidst a turbulent sea of power, the currents tugging at him to work their lines into reality. There were shallow spots in the crowd of children and deep wells of energy within the adults. All this magic and they were like creche children, leaving their magic free about their bodies. All at once, he was frightened of and for them. Loose magic could only be dangerous. 

The currents stirred and magic was focused and refined in a wave of one adult's stick. He turned and held up his hands to receive the hasty spellwork, shunting the spark of amber magic back into its current. The man scowled, black eyes narrowing as he pulled more magic into his spellwork. He watched with curious eyes, having never seen magic being used in such a careless manner.

The man was tall and dark, his magic hazing about him as grey clouds do the moon. The boy tensed in reaction when a following spell reached him. He grasped it and shuddered from the strength of what he thought was careless spellwork. Guards did such work on them, catching them unaware by their strength and quickness. He had never thought of their tricks as magic before. He narrowed his eyes at the man, uncertain of what he was facing. 

Another one stepped up behind the dark man and he cringed. There was no hazing of magic to cloak the physical in shadows, but a full radiance that shone as the sun did through closed eyes. Painful warmth that warned him not to touch or look too closely, otherwise he would burn himself to ashes. This was no guard to drag him back to his cell. Something was off. This adult was so old, but his magic was still potent. The oldest battery he knew of was nearly fifty years old and his magic was all but dried up, a well tapped too often during drought.

"I have to find Tom," he told himself, deaf to everything save the magic currents filling the Great Hall. He felt the flows drifting over his bare skin, whispering against his clothes, reminding him of spellworking within the deep chambers of the castle. A chamber that was so heavily locked down while he was within it that the world disappeared and his universe was those four walls. He started to drift out of the magic, sure there was a reason for not allowing himself to work the magic into suitable spells.

One, he realized suddenly, there was no spell scribed on the floor of the Hall, no guidelines for him to follow. Two was discovered in a state of mild panic, hands flexing at his sides a sign that part of the casting had already begun. A wild spellwork would short fuse within its creator and at best, knock him unconscious against the wards. At worst, splatter his remains across the wards.

Four, his eyes widening in terror, there were no wards.

A tight grasp at his elbow caused him to gasp in fright, the spellwork diving into whomever restrained him. There were reasons for guards to be afraid of a battery afterwards, charred and lifeless reasons. He pushed the magic into the only spell fresh in his mind, hasty in correcting the parameters for two bodies and open in his destination but for one word: safe. One desperate pull on the lines and they slipped into the currents, leaving the Hall far above them. 

"You brought us to the Chamber of Secrets?" A suspicious voice questioned as he checked himself over for strain and residue. He lifted his head to once again stare at identical green eyes, his eyes, glaring back at him. 

"Is that what it's called? I was never told." He shrugged and looked about the cavernous chamber. It had changed from the last time he had hidden in it. There was debris of fallen stones and crumbled statuary and most obvious of all, the long petrified skeleton of a basilisk resting in the shallow waters, its body trailing into the deeper sewers. 

"What happened to George?" He quavered, walking through puddles to the stone remains. It had been a companion, although bloodthirsty in opinions. Too many foolish people had given the basilisk a taste for guards and low level batteries. 

"George?" was squeaked out by the boy, who followed him with stick drawn.

"He liked the sound of it, odd name I always thought. What happened?" He questioned again. The boy stopped in a puddle, hand nervously twirling the stick at his side.

"I killed him. He was petrifying students." The boy whispered haltingly. The other nodded in response.

"Always warned him that attacking people would get him killed. Basilisks don't listen very well, do they." He pat the stone skull and looked at the boy. Something was off about him, despite the identical oddness of them both.

"Your face..." He trailed off, unsure.

"What of my face? I don't have a black smudge over my cheek." The boy retorted, bravely reaching out to wipe at the smudge. He looked surprise when no ink came away with his thumb.

"It's a mark, not a smudge. Identification mark if you must know." He smiled then. "You don't have one!" His pleased exclamation cut short as he saw the red scar darting under a cloud of black bangs.

"You have a scar, just like mine." He pulled away his hair to show an identical groove in his forehead. 

"Did your mother try to kill you too?" He asked softly.

*****

end introduction.

a/n: shall I continue?


	2. wednesday, night

disclaimer in first chapter.  
  
.Battery.  
  
Wednesday, night.  
  
I met Tom when I was fourteen. Ten was in one of his moods, angry at how quickly he had been captured after escaping from the cellblock. He didn't even make it down the stairs before the wards activated and left him a mess of flesh and bones gibbering on the steps. I can guess at the spells that caused that. I have spellworked the wards in recent years. The pets reinforcing their own cages. I would laugh at the irony, but I'm afraid I wouldn't stop.  
  
'Elve had made a comment about his last spellwork, wards for some government building. He had another bout of nightmares following that, normal for him. Ten thought otherwise, said that he was lucky to be still breathing. I told Ten that we all knew the consequences. I didn't know how to write words then, but I remember his voice, the warning laced with malice.  
  
'Of course Eleven, but one day you'll fry because they've misjudged the power. A crispy little boy to the crematorium.' What made me run from the Hall was 'at least your hair might be tamed in death'.  
  
I met Tom in the washroom, freezing in the tiled room as he spelled my nauseous stomach calm. What I remember from then is that he wore a collar as I do now, a privilege of his status as a Riddle. From what rumours I've heard as the technicians prepare for my spellworkings, he was among the first given that title. A powerful battery with no limits to his spellworking, I would have be frightened of the legend if he had not given me half stale cookies from his hidden stash in the mattress and told me stories of when he was a boy. The one about the basilisk was funny, a Riddle dripping wet and cringing before the king of serpents only to be asked if he tasted better with ketchup or salt. I laugh quietly now, I need something to smile for these days.  
  
*****  
  
He watched as Harry hissed at the snake engraved on the sewer wall. It responded to the command by forming a ladder up the wall. He frowned in confusion, recalling what Harry had mentioned of the twisted history between himself and this Voldemort character.  
  
"You received your scar from Voldemort and also his parselmouth ability?" Unsaid went his puzzling over his own ability to understand the serpents. He had never heard of Voldemort as a child, much less be attacked by the fellow and scarred.  
  
Harry nodded and climbed the ladder swiftly, as if he didn't wish to spend another moment in the chamber's passages. He soon followed, uncertain of what to do next. The chamber was in ruins with no signs of Tom coming to meet with him, nor was he able to spellwork the intricate portal that brought him here in the first place. He couldn't return without another Riddle's help. What could he do?  
  
The problem was fixed for him.  
  
A hand grasped at his collar and yanked him off the ladder, pulling him up into what appeared to be a washroom. He took no note of the details, too busy trying to divert the chill magics activated by the hand on his iron collar. A choked shriek of pain escaped his lips at the first shock of magic in his bones, down his spine and crawling into his toes and fingertips. He was dropped suddenly and was grateful for the cool pressure of the floor grounding him as he rode out the pain.  
  
He trembled on the tiled floor, letting the subversive magic take over his limbs to leave him twitching and unable to speak or move without aide. The exact reaction the collar strove for when activated; complete and painful immobilisation of the body and neutralisation of any spellworking ability. He would be lucky to say a few words within the next ten minutes, until the spell lowered to stage two: Interrogation. The guards actually preferred if one could not speak then, for their own purposes, but the lowered stage allowing speech was still standard in the spellwork of the collar. Another side effect of the spellwork was occasional delusions. He wasn't sure if that was truly happening, but he could hope it was so.  
  
The guard hovered over him, wearing a face that horrified him even as he bite his lip to keep from screaming at an erratic jolt of energy along his spine. The guard was confused. Who would speak the countermeasure? The blood from his lip moistened his tongue and he managed to sputter past the pain.  
  
"Fee... Fen... Finit..." he started, hoping to jog the guard's memory. Still tightly under the control of his collar, he had no magic to spare and nor words enough to save himself from the punishment.  
  
"Finite Incantium" was roared and he slumped gratefully to the floor.  
  
"Thank you," he murmured, feeling his muscles unclench and magic once again a hovering presence to his senses.  
  
"Can you stand Potter?" was asked by the dark, guard-like man and he looked to Harry, already standing beside the old man. He was holding that stick of his again. Did they have to be touching wood in order to attract magic currents? No, that couldn't be right.  
  
"Ah, Professor, I don't think that's his name," Harry interjected. The boy took in the lavatory, damp from leaking pipes.  
  
"I'm called 'Leven," he answered the unasked question, getting to his feet by himself. A shiver ran along his spine, magic more than winter pipes causing him to fall again.  
  
"Can you walk?" The dark man questioned, hovering beside the old man as Harry helped 'Leven back to his feet. He nodded, pulling his cloak over his shoulders tightly. It was getting colder in the washroom.  
  
"Why is the temperature drop..." He startled at the cold touch through his cloak, whirling to see what had crept up on him. He looked at the hand resting on his arm, small and faintly transparent. He jerked his eyes to meet translucent spectacles and the face behind them. He calmly asked a question, eyes widening at the ghost.  
  
"You're dead, aren't you?" The ghost nodded, hair bouncing to frame her round face. "But you're too old to be here. The creche," he paused. "They leave within months," he stated, panicking breath becoming visible in the ghost's presence.  
  
"Why would I leave? I like it here." The ghost squealed in her odd voice, her grasp tightening on his arm. He flinched, his fingers pulling at the cold hand.  
  
"I didn't kill you, let me go!" He tried to pull free, his fingers growing numb and a sickening wedge of ghostly chill growing in his chest. His heart was slowing in late preparation of touching death, an odd form of magic in its own way, a fatal one in most cases.  
  
"Please let me go," he asked before his heart stopped entirely.  
  
.end chapter one. 


	3. thursday, evening

disclaimer in first chapter.  
  
.Battery.  
  
Thursday.  
  
[inksplotches].  
  
Four spellworks within a single afternoon, Tom had to carry me to Poppy for treatment. My hands still hurt, my eyes won't focus properly. All for a war I won't ever see for myself.  
  
[inksplotches].  
  
******  
  
He was aware of movement and the low murmur of voices, but could not concentrate beyond a few seconds on anything not his body or the lingering pain of incompatible magic leaving him. Then he was somewhere warm and he opened his eyes.  
  
His eyes locked onto the familiar form of a white-clad woman, who was barking orders with the sternness of a guard and the concern that 'Leven had only received from one other person.  
  
"Poppy," he whispered happily between twinges of magic exiting his bones. She seemed surprised at his word, but a shake of her cloth-covered head and he was gently arranged on a cot.  
  
Again with the odd stick movement and sudden refinement of magic, he watched the shimmering green of Poppy's magic drift over him and beginning its subtle work. He slumped in the cot, feeling wrung out like he had done several spellworkings in an hour's time. There was no more pain from the contact of the collar on his neck and the remaining jerkiness of his muscles soon faded.  
  
"Thank you Poppy." He smiled and rested between the warm sheets.  
  
"You're welcome young man. If I may ask, how do you know my name?" She asked, gazing out into the room past the curtains that blocked his view. He could sense the bright sun glow of that aged man from the Hall and the lesser gleam of Harry, along with a deep well of power that prowled restlessly about its physical body that he could not recognize. Harry left the room, fading from 'Leven's senses as the other two came closer, hovering out of sight. 'Leven flushed at Poppy's question, realizing his mistake.  
  
"Sorry. Poppy, my Poppy, she took care of the creche children and some of the others if injured during spellwork. I helped in the infirmary lots." He ducked his head, smiling at his hands. Poppy had often kept him in the infirmary on the pretense of spellworking medicines. She had spent her free time teaching him the higher spellworks of her art, the delicate surgery spells and infection preventative workings.  
  
"Creche children?" She asked and he replied, guarding his words.  
  
"The little ones, they make it through training, a sort of graduation," he fumbled with the odd word, remembering Tom's fanciful explaination of training being like wizard's school. He smiled briefly at the myth Tom had used to entertain a naive teenage boy.  
  
"Smiling after nearly dying, you're very much like our mister Potter." Poppy smiled in return, then added wryly "including his repeat visits to the Hospital wing".  
  
"Indeed he is, Madame Pomphrey. How is our young guest?" The old man entered the enclosed space surrounding 'Leven's cot, smiling gently. A woman, who's magic darted about her as a cat does to a mouse, followed close behind.  
  
"Fine, recovered from the events you described to me, although why anyone would charm a collar in such a way." Poppy's hand went to touch the cool metal and 'Leven quickly batted it away, staring in horror at the adults. Only guards liked to touch and watch them scream silently. He moved away from Poppy, watching all of their hands before returning his gaze to their faces.  
  
"Please don't, the spellwork will recognize it only as sabotage and react as it did earlier," he pleaded, prepared to leap from the cot and hide if they were like the guards in their fun. To his surprise, they all nodded and made a show of placing their hands at their sides, calming him.  
  
"Sabotage?" The cat woman questioned, her magic sparking curiously. 'Leven watched it for a moment, trying to see the pattern causing the animal forms, then let it fade as he answered her.  
  
"Trying to remove the collar, an attempt to escape; The guards don't approve of that." He stated sarcastically, pulling his cloak tighter about him, the green material burying his collar from sight.  
  
"Is Tom a guard?" The old man asked, causing a snort of amusement from 'Leven.  
  
"Tom's a Riddle, just like me. Why would you think such a thing?" He asked his own question at last. They did not answer. Instead, the old man distracted him with another question.  
  
"Did you find Tom?" The old man asked, surprising him with the interest in his voice. He shook his head no.  
  
"He told me he would be there, but this isn't there." He looked pointedly at Poppy.  
  
"And what is your name, young man?" The cat woman questioned, looking him over intently.  
  
"Name? Me? I don't deserve a name," he muttered to his hands.  
  
"I recall being told your name was 'Leven, young man." The old man interjected.  
  
"That's not a name, it's short for Battery Twenty-three Eleven, my number."  
  
.end chapter two. 


	4. friday, noon

.Battery. disclaimer in first chapter.  
  
Friday, noon.  
  
Tom has brought me to Poppy for a checkup. Actually, he's teaching me new spellworks not on the technicians' lists. Intricate workings of healing are nothing compared to a crude flitter of one hand and the following bang of light throughout the room. I must go. Tom wants me to learn about conjuring snakes.  
  
*****  
  
'Leven followed the trio, glancing at the framed portraits throughout the halls with wide eyes. His escorts, Harry and two friends, were sent by Dumbledore to guide him from the Infirmary to the Hall. He hadn't been so closely watched since he acquired his collar. The redhead, a young Ten to his eyes, said something he missed.  
  
"Sorry?" He turned his attention to the boy, dragging it forcefully from the intriguing magic of the portraits.  
  
"What house are you in?" Ron asked again. 'Leven looked to Harry, confused.  
  
"House?"  
  
"Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff... Slytherin; the four Hogwarts Houses," he listed the familiar names.  
  
"There are no houses at the castle, but I was told a little about the ones you mentioned." He smiled. Tea biscuits with Poppy and Tom one calm evening, he had listened to their stories until curfew fell.  
  
"What were you told?" Ron asked.  
  
"Hufflepuff is full of loyal people, very dangerous." The three students stopped, eyes wide as if he spoke nonsense. Their mouths hung open briefly as he explained. "Loyalty can be too blind. They make wonderful suicide bombers." The girl blanched along with Harry. Ron just scrunched up his face.  
  
"I don't think I want to know about the other houses," he muttered, hand running through his red hair.  
  
"What about Ravenclaws?" Hermione questioned, eyes bright with interest.  
  
"Strategists, escape artists of the highest caliber," 'Leven grinned at his memories of Ten, then saddened. "They often die young," he added quietly. The group paused outside the doors to the Great Hall.  
  
"Gryffindor?" Harry asked.  
  
"The house of martyrs, heroes of very little brains but great hearts." 'Leven waited as they thought over his opinion and trailed after them to the Gryffindor table. He only noticed the shushing of voices at his entrance after he had quieted the rush of magic filling the Hall.  
  
"You haven't said anything of the Slytherin House," Harry commented casually, his voice carrying in the lull of conversations. Naturally, all listened covertly for 'Leven's reply.  
  
"I wasn't told of their house. Tom didn't want me to have a bias to his house, but I figured them out myself." He smiled, pleased that he could deduce such a thing.  
  
"They're Gryffindors," he stated calmly. "Quieter, deadlier versions where courage is replaced with cunning. Two sides of the same coin, I think, is the saying." He sat down. Conversation picked up after a moment of silence, loud after such a lull. 'Leven glanced at the plate and cup on the table before him.  
  
"Where do we get our food?" He asked and startled at the burst of magic as the girl, Hermione, tapped his plate with her stick. Eggs and sausage appeared in a sparkle of magic, warmer and fresher looking than any morning meal he'd ever seen.  
  
"Can I try that?" He asked in favour of ignoring his breakfast, his curiousity twitching in the surrounding currents.  
  
"Sure, just tap your wand to the dish and think of food." Ron explained. 'Leven paused, fingertip hovering over his plate.  
  
"Wand? Those sticks? I don't have one." He turned to Harry, not seeing the surprise on nearby faces. "Can I borrow yours for a second?" Harry hesitated, then removed the sti- wand from his sleeve. He smiled at 'Leven, who held it cautiously between two fingers.  
  
"You hold it at the end, like a sword, but not too tightly." 'Leven nodded and adjusted his grip. He lightly touched the unfilled cup and sent a tickle of magic through the wand, asking softly for honey tea. The amber liquid appeared steaming in the cup, much to his delight.  
  
He looked over the wand, seeing that it had only amplified the magic he provided. It left him with no drainage of energy and the magic currents only gently hassling him.  
  
"So that's what they do, odd," he murmured.  
  
"Try a spell," Hermione suggested brightly.  
  
"A spell? Tell me one," he asked, pushing down his curiousity and relaxing as the currents stopped playing with his robe hem.  
  
The swish and flick were explained along with the latin words 'windgardium leviosa', much to his amusement.  
  
"I was never taught anything like that. What does it do?"  
  
"It floats things," Harry explained, holding out an apple for him to target. 'Leven frowned in concentration and again allowed only a tickle through the wand. The apple slowly bobbled out of Harry's hand and 'Leven felt a burst of elation. He was doing wizard magic!  
  
The apple froze in the air, his emotions having caught the attention of the Great Hall's currents. He watched them respond to his 'spell', becoming familiar with the pattern magic formed to cause the floatation. Perhaps he could spellwork this.  
  
"'Leven?" Harry nudged him. "What are you doing?" The apple was covered with magic, the pattern obvious and simple to his eyes.  
  
"Just looking at the pattern." He held out his free hand and pushed the magic surrounding the apple towards it, shifting away from the wand-based magic to his own spellworking. The apple hovered quietly over his hand and he held out the wand to Harry.  
  
"I think I've got it," he declared, grinning at the tiny pull the spellwork had on him. He could easily sustain this for weeks.  
  
"Mister 'Leven." He turned to the headmaster. "If you would follow me," the man asked softly, eyes flickering past to the apple. He nodded and followed him out of the Hall. All eyes turned to the apple, still floating idly over the Gryffindor table.  
  
.end chapter three. 


End file.
